Scent of Jasmine
by seafoam-pulse
Summary: Home is any place where Trowa and Catherine are together.
1. Chapter 1

Catherine blinked. Crushed into the bin was a poster of Trowa in his circus costume, evidently the ringmaster felt her target wasn't coming back. A quick glance around told her everyone was too busy packing up to notice as she set down her buckets of soapy water and rescued the poster. He would come back, she knows it.

Far away, Trowa sits on his narrow cot listening to the distant sound of rough, warm banter. He is with the Maguanacs, but he's not comfortable with them. They're welcoming enough, but he senses the bond between them, they're a family. This ignites a spark of homesickness. At first he doesn't recognise the emotion for what it is, as far back as he can remember he had no other home and he retreats to his room. He doesn't bother to turn on the light, the silvery Earth moonlight is falling in bars across his pack and he knows he could find the cartridge even in complete darkness. The case is cool and for a while he just holds it, warming it in his hand. A spark of homesickness in his empty heart, like a star in the blackness of space. He unscrews the casing and pulls out a slender curl held together with a small blob of sealant, he can pick out the reddish hue faintly if he bothered to look but his eyes are fixed on the window looking at the night sky. Twisting the hair around his fingers is familiar, comforting and disquieting; each star is in reality a sun, a life source.

Catherine finds herself drawn to the lions, not her usual haunt but during the day she finds it hard to spend too much time in her trailer. The poster of Trowa is stuck inside her wardrobe door and the picture of them taken as they helped setting up the big top was on the fridge. She kept his bed made and a packet of marshmallows in the cupboard. The first time she'd realised she could read him was when she recognised the slight flickering of his eyes in the convenience store towards them. When they ate them beside the fire he was as quiet and reserved as ever but it was like seeing him with a veil removed. When he didn't respond to her jokes it wasn't a snub, he simply didn't know how, when he looked like he was ignoring her he was merely concentrating on her words. Even when he spoke to other people he kept her in his peripheral vision. For all his independence he was so vulnerable, so tough, so mechanical and heartbreakingly human. Catherine thrust her hand into the cage as he once did and stroked the lioness, the big cat's gaze became hostile when the knife-thrower's glance wandered over her cubs but resumed purring. The cat had been distraught when her last cub had been stolen for the black market, the strongman even suggesting they put her down. Catherine fancies she knows what the lioness must have been feeling; she too has failed to protect her own.

A brush past a jasmine shrub momentarily freezes Trowa, it smells like perfume; powerful, yet elusive in the cool, breezy night. He realises the error in allowing the circus to become his home, he's now afraid to die. He's afraid for Catherine. He's afraid of Catherine, the knife-thrower has power over him, has changed him. The wind shifts as soldier ahead of him turns to see what's holding him up; Trowa fakes hearing someone. The capricious breeze turns again and Trowa is swamped by an urge be close to her again. Shaken, he moves on swiftly, carrying a gun he knows she hates.

A hairbrush rocks sinisterly on the table where she has thrown it. In her search for loose change she found it in Trowa's room and a couple of dark caramel strands are caught in it. She again falls victim to dangerous, wishful thinking. The hair could be taken into a lab for testing. The question has haunted her, she wants so badly for Trowa to be Triton that it would be like loosing him again if he were not. Its better, she tells herself, for her not to know, for it to be enough that he needs her. She can't love him any more than she already does, so what does it matter? Even if he was Triton, it can't erase the years he spent away, the terrible things he's seen and lived through. But she doesn't clean the brush; she can't let go of the idea, she desperately wants to know she wasn't the sole survivor. In the next town they're in she sees the lab. An older woman is standing outside crying and hugging a teenager close to Trowa's age, the girl awkwardly hugging back with a smile splitting her face. On her lunch break Catherine yanks a hair sample from the brush and flies down to lab, before her common sense can catch up with her. When she steps through the door, slightly out of breath she feels self conscious. She's dusty, smelling of horses and she's forgotten to take of her stage make-up and feathers. A sour faced woman looks up from her magazine; she has a small kid with her. Catherine smiles at the chubby toddler and the woman reacts with spiteful yank on his arm. Catherine ignores her, she's used to people being suspicious of circus-folk. The lab is very busy and she's told as she signs the forms that the results could take some time. The secretary tells her they'll mail it to her if they don't finish before the circus leaves town. The circus moves twice before she gets the slender envelope and she prays under her breath before she opens it. Negative. She hides it, she won't tell Trowa. She suspects it's wrong.

Trowa's cheeks are faintly flushed with alcohol as he sits by the fire, the Maguanacs don't drink but the Federation soldiers do and he's an expert at camouflage. They're mostly bragging lewdly now and with resignation Trowa observes that they'll be at it for hours. He has a canned story to use if pressed but mostly just holds his drink to his lips when they glance in his direction. He's heard it all before yet he still conceals a weary disgust. Sex repulses him, his first exposure to it came when he was seven, his captain used to make one of the other boys in his company do things to him. He hates when people look at him, greedy and slobbering. One of the other young men is telling his story now, he's well liked and too young for war, a bit like Quatre. There's no sex in his story, he's just talking about this girl he left at home. She plays piano, paints pictures and is waiting for him to come back to her. The other guys quieten; moved despite their crudeness.

Catherine's knife-throwing act has been left out of the circus since Trowa left. The ringmaster tried ordering her to train a new partner but the usually friendly performer became so waspish and unco-operative that he finally gave in. As punishment she's being pushed into learning contortion under a harpy more fearsome than she'll ever be. She still keeps her knife skills sharp though; she hopes to perform again soon.

Noin smirks at him as one of the finely dressed young ladies presses a kiss to his cheek. She has been flirting hard all night and more than a few guys are glaring at him with envy. Trowa responds courteously and allows her another dance before melting into the crowd. He regards the kiss as another one of the numerous discomforts he has to put up with or ignore; less disgusting than cleaning up vomit, more irritating than being caught in the rain. Later, when he's preparing for bed he catches sight of the faint rosy smear, the girl's lipstick was more tenacious then he thought. He touches it and remembers the shocking, sudden pain; the salty sweetness of blood and the piercing crystal of Catherine's tears. The mark she left was like a branding, he could no longer kill himself because he belonged to her. It smashed down the barrier that protected him from emotion leaving him raw and vulnerable. That slap held more love and emotional intensity than any other's kiss. He briefly wonders what her kiss would be like but shuts that thought down with a racing pulse.

When Trowa comes back Catherine can't decide whether she wants to race over to him and swing him around or grab him and shake him till he promises never to do this to her again. Instead of either she waits for him by the entrance to the Big Top, she knows he needs time to adjust to the circus again just as certainly as she knows he's glad to be back. As he walks those last few meters towards her their eyes are already speaking volumes.

It's a quiet dinner, ever since the news announcement Catherine has been waiting for him so it's all his favourites. He notices but hardly tastes it as his thoughts are all on the war and coming home. They talk briefly about circus gossip and Trowa relays all his friend's hellos and promises to visit. It's cosy but its not exactly the same, subtle things have changed between them and both admit to tiredness and decide to have an early night. Catherine knows the value of patience when it comes to Trowa, but when he picks up the tea-towel she thinks 'patience be damned'. She's waited so long for her brother to come home and impulsively hugs him, wet hands and all. While he doesn't move his arms to return it, Trowa's muscles relax and he leans in. By the time Cathy releases him everything is right between them, she has forgiven him for putting himself in danger and he's assured of his welcome with her. She's surprised at the effect of something so brief and feels the familiar surge of protectiveness at his silent need for reassurance.


	2. Chapter 2

Through all those tense, watchful nights where nothing happened, all those frenetic races to accomplish the impossible before dawn Trowa refused to think about this bed. As if by shutting it out of his mind he could isolate the two and protect this bed from being tainted, a futile attempt. Restless, Trowa shifts to get less comfortable, twisting the slightly worn duvet to cover less of his body. Slipping into the bed had been a shock, sinking into the too soft mattress, the intrusive weight of the blanket and the subtle, overwhelming smell of home. In the kitchen the clock softly ticks, snipping the night into thousands of wasted seconds. On the other side of the caravan Catherine is breathing evenly and a strange kind of disappointment steals through him, is this all? The day's erratic instances of ecstasy have unsettled him and abruptly Trowa finds himself at his fly-specked window. Soundlessly he coaxes it open, escaping into the surreal, shadowy circus.

Catherine wakes up with the knowledge that Trowa is here and is afraid she's still dreaming. She's woken like this before, aching with loss when she remembers he's not here. 'No' she tells herself firmly, 'he is home, it's true' and with a bound she's out of bed and running to Trowa's room. She throws open the door without knocking. The sight of the neatly made bed is like an icy dagger and her throat lets out a foreign croak. Suddenly she's sobbing.

Trowa walks back to the caravan slowly with a bag of warm buns bought when the bakery opened. As he draws nearer the back of his neck begins to prickle and he's running even before his brain identifies the sound. He shoulders open the flimsily locked door, the caravan is filled with Catherine's wild misery. She's curled up in the doorway to his room and crying so hard she can't see him. Trowa lets the buns fall, dropping to his knees beside her. He hesitantly touches her shoulder, she turns to him, brittle with fury, blindingly beautiful. "Why did you leave me?" she rasps and the child-soldier wraps his arms around her as clumsily as a marionette. Instead of quieting the awkward hug makes her cry harder, she can't stop. All the choked off emotions from the time he left the circus till now have burst free, accusing him with her love.

Every afternoon Catherine is whisked off by the pinch-faced Suzetta for her contortion lesson. She's not ready to perform yet and is indifferent at best, resentful at worst towards it. As far as she's concerned, the lessons were forced on her to take her mind off Trowa and now that he's back she'd rather spend the time practicing with him. Today she's trying to delay her lesson by helping with the safety net maintenance but the ringmaster comes to see how they're going and notices the time. As she stifles a sigh the ringmaster casually thanks her, 'it's good of you to do this for her' and with a jolt she realises that these lessons were not for her benefit, that Suzetta was lonely.

The weather in this town has been remarkably clement and Trowa has escaped from the circus to have some time alone. Idleness plays a larger role in a soldier's life than many would suspect and Trowa needs these periods of introspection otherwise he'd feel overwhelmed. In some ways circus life is more stressful than soldiering, he is an expert on soldiering. He can identify on sight what sort of soldier a man will be, what he can do, how he will react, how to behave towards him. Here in the circus tempers and emotions flare unexpectedly, the menial chores are endless and if they can't think of anything for him to do then Cathy expects him to go have fun, to play. The chores he can handle but Having Fun is daunting and frustrating, he doesn't know how to and it can't be taught.

Suzetta is as critical and condescending as ever but for once Cathy does all she says willingly. Compassion has made her humble and forgiving but the lessons still push her to her body's limit. Somewhere nearby a radio has been turned on and after shooting it a couple of dirty looks Suzetta has set her a simple routine to do with the music.

Bored, Trowa wanders back to the circus to find Cathy. James mending the net knows who he's looking for tells him where Suzetta's trailer is. It's next to a large tree and too close to a couple of other trailers giving the space where they're working some privacy. Suzetta is leaning against her caravan with arms crossed, reprimands popping out of her like bubbles in lemonade. In the centre of their little clearing is Cathy, completely focussed on what she's doing. The dappled afternoon light glows in her hair, while still unsure she moves with an unconscious sensuality. His eyes are drawn against his will to the smooth planes of her body, the swell of her breasts. He stands transfixed. Guilt and desire thrash against each other but are muted by a sense of wonder. She's dressed in shabby cast-offs with grass in her hair yet she's the most gorgeous creature he's ever seen.

Sometimes Trowa lets Catherine come with him he evades the circus, but it's never as relaxing as when he is on his own. Even when she's silent he can feel her wanting him to open up to her, to tell her his secrets. As much as he loves her he doubts he will ever tell anyone his secrets. They're best forgotten, dirty, evil memories that serve no further purpose. The things he wishes to hide aren't dashing and exciting, there's no romance about them. They're merely the disgusting, disappointing dregs of humanity that war unearths in people. He knows Catherine hates war, so why is she so curious? Surely she doesn't want to hear about what it's like to kill someone you've marched with, shared food with, and fought beside. To hear about how his entrails were ripped open and how he begged you with terrified animal eyes to end it for him. How his head exploded spattering the stinking mud with brain tissue. She's innocent, at least comparatively so and why in the world would she think he'd want to sully her? She'd argued so furiously to prevent him from going and now she wanted him to unload all his filth on her? No way, he'd fight at least as determinedly to protect her as she did him.

At first, so little by way of entertainment pleased Trowa that to protect herself from continually working on new routines, fixing the house, and exercising the animals Catherine would force him to vid-disks with her. Unlike all the other chores which Trowa carried out with abnormal contentment, being made to sit still watch such drivel made Trowa restless. He sighed, crossed his arms, tapped his feet and developed new ways to convey his irritation to Catherine who huffed and warned him she'd be quizzing him about it after. In retaliation for his lack of interest in the classics of action, drama and mystery Catherine started deliberately choosing the silliest, most childish and colourful vid-disks available and just to be contrary he would claim to like them. He'd sprawl out with every sign of attention, a suppressed, ironic glee dancing around his eyes. And he'd talk to her about it afterwards too, often for days plaguing her with intelligent yet nonsensical debates. After a while it was Trowa who made Catherine sit down with him, not in retaliation she noticed with surprise, because he wanted to.

Chichi the poodle was a brat, everyone knew that but she was a star performer with an owner severely stuck with stage-mama syndrome. Since the circus didn't always have the money for expensive jobs like repairing specialist equipment they sometimes had to borrow money from Chichi's owner, the self-styled Lady Charlotte. Whenever this happened Chichi would somehow be incorporated in all the acts and the small dog would be insufferable. Ten minutes into their practise with her Catherine was shocked to see Trowa smack Chichi. Sure it was hardly a more than touch and the ratbag definitely deserved it but since peace had been declared Trowa had always exercised an impractical amount of care to never show a hint of violence. Even when they were having mock arguments she could do anything she liked to the tall, well muscled young man, shake him, kick him, tackle him and he'd never do a thing to resist her. On the flip side he never initiated any gestures of affection either. If she didn't vigilantly keep encouraging him in their banter he would let her win all their pointless debates too.  
"Trowa, did I just see you smack the dog?" she hissed delightedly. Guilt flickered over Trowa's face before he caught her conspiratorial smile.  
"She needed it, look, she's being a good girl now." Indeed, Chichi was behaving like a perfectly adoring angel.  
"See, you don't always have to pretend you're a wimp." She said unflinching at the black look in his eyes. "No-one's going to think you're a brute if you stand up for yourself a little."  
"You don't get it Cathy; some of them still remember when we performed for the government. Do you think they'd tolerate me if I showed the least bit of aggression?"  
"Hang on; you think they don't trust you? They let you walk around with knives Trowa, they know you would never hurt us. You're not the only one here who's survived the war. Do you seriously think you're the only here who's killed? Who's stolen?" She could sense he was thinking about what she was saying, but the tension was still there.  
"I don't know my own strength. I don't want to risk getting thrown out over an accident." As he said this Cathy thought even he should know how flimsy that sounded. The real problem was that he was scared.  
"Never Trowa, nothing you say or do will make us abandon you. I just get frustrated when you hold things back from me. I'd rather you tell me to my face I'm being an idiot than think it behind your mask. And it's no fun hitting you if you don't try to stop me. I'm not asking for much Trowa, just that you be yourself around me, you don't have to pretend to be anything your not." Unconsciously her hands had planted themselves on her hips. Trowa looked at her for a long awkward moment as if he were about to say or do something, but then he just turned and nodded as always did when she got confrontational. In his head he tweaked her nose, called her bossy and gave her a noogie; maybe next time she got all high and mighty he might actually do it.


End file.
